The violent sound

stoneange

school hall lemon
he’s the
greasy weasel
he’s a
fag in flip flops
he’s the
chosen victim.

somebody better put this little motherfucker in his place.

now he’s
back at home
for
sweet intermission
but the
constant battle
of
well-aged frustrations
lead to sudden explosions of

“I – will – never – be - enough”.

then a
spice filled stink
of
burning cologne
mixes with
morbid longing
for
lust filled control.

it’s
living hell
inside this
heart that he owns
it’s the
razor cut
that slips down
to the bone.

and the only God the boy has
ever known
is a
ghost on the wall
hanging judging there alone.

every night the hands that pray
pushes him further
down to the ground

every moment of his acid day
is full of
that violent sound…